Silverbacks
by WendieZ
Summary: For the UNCLE HQ Inaugural Challenge. Think gorillas.


Silverbacks

By WendieZ

_UNCLE Headquarters, the first week in January 1968_

The internal line of his laboratory telephone rang and without looking up, Illya Kuryakin picked up the receiver. "Kuryakin here."

An excited voice spoke from the other side of the connection. "Mr. Kuryakin! You gotta come quick!"

The blond agent switched mental gears. "Is that you, Mr. Vasquez? I thought I sent you down to Medical to have Doctor Cohen sign off on my research concerning Capsule B upgrade."

The technician was nearly breathless. "I _am_ in Medical."

Kuryakin breathed a patient sigh. "Then what is it that seems to need my immediate attention?"

Vasquez could hardly maintain control. "Mr. Solo is absolutely killing Mr. Waverly!"

Illya slammed down the receiver, reached for his Special hanging in the holster on a coatrack with his suit coat and ran for the elevators. Had he remained to hear Vasquez's second sentence, he might not have felt the need to hurry as much.

The elevator door opened onto the Medical wing as Illya poised to rush into the lobby. Fortunately for everyone, he pulled up at the last instant before almost running headlong into a crowd nearly filling the lobby. He lowered his gun in confusion. If a crisis actually existed, these people were behaving most contrarily. There was no air of tension, urgency or even despair—just intense curiosity. Vasquez came rushing up to Illya.

"C'mon, you gotta see this!" He looked down at the agent's gun, still at the ready to fire. "What's _that_ for?"

"You implied there was an emergency between Mr. Solo and Mr. Waverly."

"How did you get that idea?" Vasquez said. "Mr. Waverly challenged Mr. Solo to a chess match and Mr. Solo is beating the pants off Mr. Waverly."

"You were talking about a game of _chess_?" Kuryakin stammered.

"Yeah," Vasquez replied. He then realized that the UNCLE agent had not heard his entire message. "Uh, sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. I guess 'killing' wasn't the best choice of words."

Illya stuck the gun in his belt, half irritated, half embarrassed. "Perhaps not. We tend to take those words rather literally. So how did this event of the century come about?"

"Mr. Waverly was down here for his annual physical and asked Mr. Solo if he would help him relieve the boredom."

"I guess Napoleon got tired of beating me and went for more of a challenge." He looked over the crowd. "And you say he's beating Mr. Waverly?"

"Last I heard. I bet you could get a ring-side seat, being Mr. Solo's partner and all."

Illya strode forward. "Yes, I think I will. This could be very interesting."

Recognizing the advance of New York's Number Two enforcement agent, the crowd of people parted like the Red Sea. Alexander Waverly sat propped up in a hospital bed, a bathrobe covering his state of undress (down to his underwear), and Napoleon Solo was in a chair opposite the bed. Between them on a hospital table, the chessboard was nearly devoid of playing pieces.

Mr. Waverly looked up and nodded a greeting as Illya approached, but Napoleon sat, chin supported on his right palm, intently studying the board. Kuryakin paused in his tracked mesmerized by the sight of the two men, each powerful in their own right, squared off in "mortal" combat. The crowd closed in on the Russian, regaining its vantage point.

Beside him, Dr. Cohen was as captivated as the rest of the onlookers. Illya whispered, "how long has this been going on?"

"About three-quarters of an hour. Mr. Waverly took the first game quickly and then tore Solo a new one for letting him win."

"Mr. Waverly is a consummate chess player. But I heard Napoleon is winning this game?"

"Waverly's not letting him win either. Mr. Solo is fighting hard for every piece he takes."

Illya watched both men carefully, and then he understood. Years ago, Waverly confirmed through a game of chess that a diplomatic troubleshooter's mistakes in previous missions were due to minute areas of brain damage perpetrated by THRUSH. Now Waverly was measuring the prowess of a man who might one day take his place as Number One, Section One. How Napoleon fared in this strategic mental jousting could mean his future in UNCLE.

Napoleon made a move, which Waverly countered, and a smile spread across the Cupid's bow lips. Solo quickly reached for his black knight and made his move. "Check and mate, sir."

Waverly looked over the board to confirm Solo's request. "You are quite correct, Mr. Solo." The older man flicked at his white king, toppling it. "The game is yours." The spectators clapped enthusiastically.

Napoleon sighed heavily. This game had proved more taxing than he ever expected. "Thank you for a challenging game, sir." He moved to stand up, but his boss' voice stopped him. "Unless I'm mistaken, a match is usually the best of three. You threw the first game. That makes us even at one to one."

Napoleon hesitated. "I thought you might be ready for a breather."

Waverly smiled. "Nonsense. I'm finding the exercise invigorating." The older man looked up at his heir apparent. "Do you need a break, Mr. Solo?"

Illya watched the parade of emotions pass across his partner's face. Napoleon was mentally weary, dying for a rest, desperately wishing for an extended period of mindless relief, but he was reluctant to show that weakness in front of his superior. Kuryakin also saw a flicker of disappointment in Waverly's face. Solo was a superlative field agent, but it appeared he was not yet ready to begin the transition to become all he needed to be to eventually take Waverly's place. Napoleon Solo was an Alpha male in the UNCLE tribe, but Waverly was still the Primary.

Kuryakin pushed through the crowd to the front. "I hate to break up your jousting match, sir, but I need Napoleon's talents for a very sticky situation I've managed to get myself into. May I borrow him for a little while?"

Waverly looked up at the blond Russian with a knowing half-smile. "Certainly, Mr. Kuryakin. I have taken up a considerable amount of what I am sure is his very valuable time."

"Thank you, sir. I won't keep him long." Kuryakin caught Solo's eyes and the look of gratitude.

"No hurry. I could use a bit of rest myself. These annual physicals always take their toll."

Illya led the way toward the elevators while Napoleon fielded the pats on the back and the kudos from his victory. After the doors closed, Solo relaxed.

"I never played chess with the Old Man before," he said with a sigh of relief. "He's better than I ever imagined."

Kuryakin looked at him curiously. "Why did you let him win the first game, then?"

"I don't know. He almost took my head off."

"So I heard."

"Thanks for rescuing me back there. I don't think I could have beaten him again. He was brutal."

A wry smile touched Illya's lips. "How do you know he didn't let you win the second game?"

"Thanks, Illya, I feel lots better about the whole thing now. I know he was testing me, seeing if I was ready to start the process of replacing him."

"Do _you_ think you're ready?"

"Not by a long shot. I still have five years in the field and I want them."

"Perhaps you should relay that to Mr. Waverly."

Solo nodded. "Yes, I think I will. Thanks."

The pair exited the elevator and Solo made a beeline to the lunchroom. Kuryakin followed, smiling at the thought that one day, his friend and partner would be ready for a rematch of wits with Mr. Waverly. And on that day, the leader of the tribe known as UNCLE would see his successor.


End file.
